


Of Oranges and Stockings

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, HEA, Hormones, Misunderstandings, Pregnancy, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Hermione worries that her muggleborn Christmas traditions will always come second to Draco’s pureblood Christmas traditions
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 528
Collections: D/Hr Advent 2019





	Of Oranges and Stockings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dhr Advent. My prompt was 'stockings'. For anyone who nominated me to write a story this year, thank you so much. I’m so excited to be able to participate and bring some fun Dramione Christmas to you! 
> 
> So many thanks to my alpha extraordinaire, **mcal** , who saved this fic so many times, and to **webbythehouseelf** for the quick beta job. Any remaining errors are my own.

“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Her husband, and current bane of her existence, stood at their fireplace mantle with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“It’s tradition, Draco,” Hermione said, exasperated by the long and spiraling argument they’d been having all night. “We hang the stockings by the fire and Sir Nicholas climbs down the chimney and fills them with chocolates and oranges and—”

“Oranges!” He’d been stuck on that particular detail for a quarter of an hour. “Who puts an orange in a sock? It’s preposterous.”

“No.” Hermione finally lost her temper. “What’s preposterous is that my husband has done nothing but argue over every single Muggle tradition I’ve introduced for our first Christmas! You know what, fine! Draco Malfoy, if you’d rather have a traditional, pureblood Christmas, then feel free to go home to your parents for the holiday.”

Silence filled the room. She was so close to tears that Hermione was sure she’d lose it. Her hands wrapped tightly around the small bauble in her hand until it cracked under the pressure. As blood dripped from her finger, Draco crossed the room to her and pulled her hand into his.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he whispered as she tried to yank her hand away. He wouldn’t let her, and instead waved his hand over the deep cut and cleaned it out. “I’m not staying with my parents for the holiday.”

“Then I’ll go stay with Harry and—” she winced as he leveled her with a glare.

“You’ll be home for Christmas, Hermione.” 

Draco ushered her out of their family room and to the bathroom. He sat her on the toilet lid and rummaged about the cabinets until he had wraps and potions lined neatly next to her on the counter.

“It’s no trouble. They’ll be happy to have me over and then we won’t have to fight about Christmas traditions any more.” She chewed her lip as he applied pressure to her finger, and used a warm, wet flannel to wipe the blood from her skin. “We knew we’d struggle with this part of our relationship, Draco. It’s okay.”

He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair. “No, it’s not  _ okay _ .” He dabbed dittany around her wound, ignoring the tug of her lips as the potion burned her. “What are you planning to do? Spend every holiday apart? That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m quite tired of the way you’re brushing aside my concerns.” Hermione ripped her hand away from him and grabbed the gauze with her uninjured hand. “You’re demanding a goose feather tree, and a lavish party with wassail punch, and I’ve agreed even though they’re not  _ my _ traditions.” She wrapped her finger and huffed as her husband reached for her hand to help seal the dressing. “I only want stockings on the mantle, Draco. Why do you have to be so cruel about it?”

His hand dropped from hers. For a brief moment, Hermione thought she saw the shadow of hurt flash through his eyes, but then it was gone. Replaced, as always, by an icy look that told her nothing good would come from remaining in his presence.

Instead of saying anything at all, Draco straightened in front of her and walked from the bathroom in silence. She watched him go, but was too upset to care about soothing his ego. Hermione sat on the toilet, held her bandaged finger to her chest, and stole deep breaths as she counted through her mounting anger.

After a quarter of an hour, she walked from the bathroom in search of her husband.

And he was nowhere to be found.

* * *

  
  
  


Of course, it all made sense the next morning.

Days of feeling exhausted, turning up her nose at her favorite biscuits, that weird nagging feeling that  _ something _ was different. One positive, pink potion told her everything she needed to know.

Hermione Granger was pregnant, and it had driven her stark raving mad.

Why had she lost her patience with Draco so easily? Hormones. Why had she pushed her dinner away the night before and run to the bedroom in a fit of tears when he said that the vegetables were too crisp? Hormones. And why was she currently wondering if her entire relationship was flushing down the loo over  _ oranges _ of all things? Hormones, hormones, hormones.

Merlin, but he could barely even look at her this morning when she’d woken up. He had handed her a cuppa, just the way she liked it, and then dashed off to work with the barest kiss to her temple and a promise that he’d see her later in the evening.

Hermione sat in their living room, half-decorated Christmas tree in one corner and discarded stockings laid haphazardly next to the fireplace across from her. A fresh wave of tears washed over her as she stared at their disjointed Christmas traditions; his pure white peacock statues and her velvet and blue Father Christmas figure. What were they thinking with the ‘love conquers all’ tripe they’d declared over the summer? Were they mental? How could they ever overcome such vast and striking differences?

He was a pureblood. She was a muggleborn. They had nothing in common at all. And yet, they thought that their love could outmatch the universe. She snorted a laugh as she swiped her jumper sleeve under her nose. What a fool she was.

And now - well,  _ now _ she was bringing a baby into the madness, and she wasn’t even sure if she and Draco could reconcile their differences. How would the baby even celebrate Christmas? Would she have to dress him or her up in tiny tuxedos and parade them around to friends and family as some pointy-chinned heir? Or could he have warm Christmases filled with laughter and mismatching ornaments and Nanny Jean’s too-tart punch?

She didn’t even know what Draco ate for Christmas.

Hermione openly sobbed as she thought of Christmases without turkey and roast potatoes. What if they ate trifle instead of pudding for dessert? Or worse, what if there was no gravy for fear that the children would make a mess?

She laid her head down on the arm of their sofa and sobbed into the crook of her elbow. It wasn’t until mid-morning when she stirred awake that Hermione realized that she’d never even showered for work, and so she sent her boss a quick note using Draco’s owl, and flung herself back onto the sofa in a useless heap.

* * *

  
  
  


“Hermione?”

She hid in the bathroom, because she knew he’d be home and he’d wonder why he didn’t see her at the Ministry for their daily lunch that afternoon. And, she really didn’t feel like explaining to him that she’d had a full blown meltdown, or why.

So, as he called her name, she sat quietly on the lid of the toilet. Her hands folded in her lap as she listened to his footsteps clacking through their home.

“Hermione, love, are you home?” He was closer then, passing by the loo door without actually opening it up. He rapt on the door once, she jumped, but when she didn’t answer, he stepped away.

Her eyes were still puffy from crying all day and her stomach was in knots because she couldn’t hold down anything more than peppermint tea. She looked like a hag with her chaotic, frizzy curls in a mass around her shoulders, and she was sure that even though she brushed her teeth three times, her breath still smelled stale.

The last thing she wanted was to see her dashing, charming husband and wonder, again, how they would ever make this work.

* * *

  
  
  


“Hermione, I didn’t know we were expecting you for dinner.” Luna wrapped Hermione in a tight hug and stepped back with a genial smile on her face. “Harry didn’t say, though he also didn’t tell me that you’re expecting.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “I didn’t tell Harry - I haven’t told anyone yet. I only just found out.”

Luna made a flighty sort of sound and then gestured for Hermione to follow her through the familiar foyer into Potter Cottage. “It’s just like a baby to surprise you with their presence, isn’t it? Harry seems to think there’s an exact science to it, but I keep trying to tell him that our little Hestia won’t be born until the world needs her soul.”

“I… right.” Hermione didn’t have it in her to ask Luna what the hell she was on about.

She followed Luna all the way to the kitchen and swallowed back rising bile in her throat. It didn’t smell as bad as the muffin she’d picked at for lunch, but the savory smell of the gravy turned her stomach still. Luna seemed to understand, and cast a charm around the table that stopped the smell wafting through the air.

“Thanks,” Hermione said with a frown as she crossed her legs. “Is Harry here? I have a favor to ask you both.”

“He’s just in the bedroom recovering from the mindblowing sex we had on the counter,” she said matter-of-factly. “He should be out shortly. You look a bit peaky - are you alright?”

It was a mark of the length of their friendship that Luna’s blunt sexual discussion didn’t surprise Hermione at all. In fact, during Luna’s hen night, Hermione had to hear all of the various things that Harry had promised to do to her on their wedding night, and though Hermione knew way too much about her best friend’s sex life, she was glad that he had someone as liberated as Luna to spend his life with. Merlin knew that he deserved such freedom after the things he’d gone through.

Instead, she balled her fists and crossed her arms. “I’m fine, I suppose.” Luna just smiled and Hermione dropped her eye to the thick roast on the table. “Draco and I had a row.”

“Oh.” Luna’s smile grew even wider, and her pale blue eyes sparkled the way they always did when she knew something no one else did. “Harry and I row all the time. The makeup sex is the  _ best. _ I’m always much sharper after a good tumble.”

“I don’t know that we’ll have makeup sex after this.” Hermione sniffed, feeling the tears begin to build at the corners of her eyes again. “I don’t know that we’ll get through this. I don’t think we can.”

The weight of a hand warmed her shoulder and Hermione turned her wet eyes to see Harry standing at her side. His expression was soft, understanding. He smelled of sex and something sweet, and Hermione immediately threw up at his feet.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I know you know where she is, Potter.”

Hermione listened to her husband’s voice in the fireplace grate, but she made no move to go and greet him. Instead, she had instructed Harry to tell Draco that they hadn’t seen her and that she was probably stowed away at work until the sun came up the next day. Harry had rolled his eyes, but nodded as the green flames lit the Potter Cottage living room.

“It’s not my favorite thing that you can just poke your head into my home whenever you feel like it,” Harry said by way of greeting him. “Have you considered that if Hermione doesn’t want to talk to you, you won’t be able to find her.”

“All of this about bloody oranges.” She could hear the annoyance in his voice, practically see the way his blond head would shake and the way his lips would curl. “Potter, please. If you know where she’s at, I need to find her. She has it in her head that our marriage is ending over oranges and Christmas socks, and—”

Silence followed  for a beat and Hermione could feel Luna’s big, blue eyes watching Hermione watch the fireplace.

“I can’t have fucked it up this bad, right?”

  
She caught the way he ran his hand through his hair, the downward turn of his sharp features, just before he disappeared from the flames.

“Hermione.” Harry crouched down in front of her with a mug of steaming tea between his hands. “The bloke’s a wreck. Don’t you think you should talk to him?”

Her stomach twisted at the thought, but she relented with a firm nod. “I suppose.”

* * *

As her feet hit the soot covered floor of the fireplace grate, Hermione steadied her nerves. She never expected that her marriage would end over something as joyous as Christmas, but then she hadn’t expected anything about her marriage — husband, in-laws, how easily their friends would accept their relationship, and now a pregnancy so early on. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that  _ this _ would be their undoing after everything. But, it was.

She stole a deep breath as she stepped from the floo and kicked her shoes off to the mat beside their fireplace. A savory smell hit her first, and then the twinkling lights to her side caught her gaze. Their Christmas tree, large and green and covered in fairy lights and golden ornaments, stood tall in the corner with the skirt she’d been gifted from her mum wrapped around its base.

It wasn’t until she walked further into the room that she turned and found the mantle of the fireplace decorated with garland and red ribbons. At every drop of the garland, a stocking hung — but not the stockings she and Draco were arguing about before. No, these stockings were pristine white with H and D embroidered on them in thick, gold lettering.

Her throat tightened. Hermione took a step backward and collided with something hard.

“Hermione,” Draco whispered, his hand meeting her hip and curling over it gently. “I knew you were with Potter.”

She puckered her lips and turned in his hold, but he didn’t back up or move to give her space at all. Hermione tilted her chin, staring up and into his eyes.

“I needed time to come to terms with everything,” she said quietly, comforted by the way that his thumb rubbed small, concentric circles on her skin. “Draco, what is all of this?”

“This is your Christmas.” His lips twitched, and he turned her back to face the decorated room with his lips near her ear. “Your Christmas tree, your ribbons, your bloody stockings… because I don’t care about  _ my _ Christmas traditions, Hermione. I want to create new traditions with you.”

As the tears collected in the corners of her eyes, Hermione spun around and wrapped her arms around his neck. It was then that she knew every doubt, every fear, that she’d had about the impending doom of their marriage at Christmas was for nothing. Draco, as he’d always done, knew precisely what to say and do to ease her worries and remind her how much they loved each other despite the differences of their worlds.

* * *

  
  


Christmas morning was a quiet morning. The Wizard Wireless Network played softly through their home as Hermione trudged from bed wrapped in her favorite, fluffy dressing gown and fuzzy socks. The smell of bacon directed her footsteps toward the kitchen, where she found Draco barefoot and cooking breakfast. Out the window, she watched as big snowflakes floated down — not enough to stick, but enough that the world outside looked like a snowglobe.

“Good morning, love,” Draco said without even glancing over his shoulder to confirm she was there. It was just like him to know the second she entered a room; like a sixth sense, and it made her smile every time.

“Morning.” Hermione walked to him and wrapped her hands around his torso, pushing her cheek into the hard planes of his back. “Finish up; we have presents to open.”

His shoulders shook with a chuckle, and he turned the cooker off. Draco used the tea towel that was stuffed in his back pocket to wipe his hands and then tossed it to the counter as he led her from the kitchen to their living room. He sat on the sofa, an ankle pulled over the opposite knee, and gestured to the presents under the tree.

  
She wasn’t interested in those, though.

Hermione padded over to the fireplace mantle and pulled the stocking labeled ‘D’ from it. She turned to bring it to Draco, but he held up his hand.

“Grab yours as well, darling.” He smirked at the surprise on her face. “You didn’t think I’d leave your stocking empty after that big to-do you had over them?”

She grabbed her stocking from the mantle, a sheepish grin on her face. When she slid next to him on the sofa, her hip pressed against his, Hermione tossed his stocking onto his lap.

“You first,” she insisted, steeling herself with that legendary Gryffindor courage she was meant to have.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek and held her breath as he rifled around inside of the stocking. His eyebrows screwed up; he must have found its contents. When he withdrew the small, pink colored vial and held it up to his eyes, her stomach flipped.

“Is this… what is this?” Draco asked breathlessly, his eyes cutting sharply to her. “Are you — does this mean what I think it means, or is this another muggle tradition that I don’t know about?”

“I’m pregnant.”

  
She let the silence hang in the scant space between them, worrying her lip between her teeth as she tried to gauge his reaction. Draco was guarded, quiet, stoic; he gave away nothing, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, his lips quirked wrly.

“I really wish you’d have opened yours first,” he whispered, lips barely moving as he canted his chin in her direction. “It’s going to feel very anticlimactic after this.”

Hermione dug into her stocking, and when her hand wrapped around a small, round object, her face cracked into a big smile. “An orange?”

He ducked his chin once and rolled the little vial he still held between his fingers. “I wanted to make sure Christmas was as authentic as possible for you. Even though I don’t understand this orange business; it’s clearly important to you.”

She smiled down at the orange. “I think I’m excited that we’ll have a little one to pass these traditions onto to.”

His palm rested against her cheek and lifted her gaze to his once more. “Me too, love.”


End file.
